


Never Forgotten

by likethenight



Series: My Heart Is An Empty Vessel [9]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Family, Gen, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:01:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27281602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likethenight/pseuds/likethenight
Summary: After Bard's funeral, Sigrid and Thranduil mourn him together.
Relationships: Bard the Bowman/Thranduil, Sigrid (Hobbit Movies) & Thranduil (Tolkien)
Series: My Heart Is An Empty Vessel [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1902442
Comments: 15
Kudos: 21





	Never Forgotten

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: this one's a heartbreaker. I cried while I was writing it, which almost never happens, so...yeah. It's very sad indeed.
> 
> Contains minor spoilers for [My Heart Is An Empty Vessel](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26197213), if you regard what inevitably must happen to Bard as a spoiler. However, Empty Vessel ends years before Bard dies, and I am not planning to write his actual death. (famous last words *tempts fate and the muses*)
> 
> I haven't warned for 'Major Character Death' because it doesn't happen in this story; I've tagged for 'canonical character death' instead, but if you think I ought to warn, do let me know.
> 
> This story was inspired by [this beautiful piece of art](https://deerlordhunter.tumblr.com/post/173112883314/thranduil-i-thought-i-posted-this-already-maybe) by [deerlordhunter](https://deerlordhunter.tumblr.com) on Tumblr. I honestly did not intend to write this part of the story at all, and then I saw this picture and how beautifully it portrayed a grieving Thranduil, and then...this happened. This is what I mean by tempting fate and the muses. >.<

After the feasting was done, the servitors cleared the tables and brought out the barrels of ale and wine so that everyone could drink and mingle and mourn among themselves. Sigrid made her way through the crowds with her head held high, greeting everyone, receiving their condolences, all the time feeling as though she was watching herself from somewhere up in the rafters of the great hall, merely a shell going through the motions, ironclad against the grief that threatened to overwhelm her. But she was the Queen, and the Queen could not weep before her people. Later, when she was alone, she would give in and cry like the child she had not been for forty years or more, but for now she must remain in control.

Tilda had no such restrictions upon her, and she had spent the day alternately dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief and letting her tears flow freely down her face; Bain and Lotta had been keeping an eye on her, and Brand, Astrid and Ingrid had been taking it in turns to pass her fresh handkerchiefs as each one became sodden.

Dáin was up on the dais clutching a large mug of ale, Tauriel next to him and the pair of them surrounded by some of Dáin’s closest advisers and a few of Bain’s guards, all of them drinking copiously and listening as Dáin told some probably lewd story about Sigrid’s father; as she watched them she heard a great laugh go up, and Bofur’s voice raised in what sounded like an additional punchline. And Thranduil was - actually, Sigrid thought, she could not see her stepfather anywhere. He had been upon the dais a few moments ago, she was sure, a goblet of wine in his hand, but now he was nowhere to be seen, and his goblet stood abandoned upon the table where he had sat beside her to eat; not that either of them had achieved much other than pushing their food around their plates, both of them too hollow, too sick at heart to feel like eating anything.

She completed her circuit of the hall for appearances’ sake, and when she had done so and Thranduil still had not reappeared, something prompted her to make for the door at the back of the room, the one that led out onto the small courtyard behind the building. Glancing around to be sure that she was not observed, she eased the door open and slipped through.

It was raining hard, the afternoon sky iron-grey and bleak, and Thranduil stood in the middle of the courtyard, his face slightly turned up towards the rain. He was wet through, his hair sodden and plastered to his head, the back of his neck, down over his shoulders, raindrops clinging momentarily to the spines of his crown and then falling to wet his hair still further; and upon his face was an expression of such sorrow that Sigrid’s heart clenched at the sight of him. For as much as she mourned and missed her father, as much as she had loved him, she knew that Thranduil was suffering far more than she could ever imagine.

She was about to slip back into the hall before he could notice her, certain that he would want to be alone, but as she moved he turned his head and saw her. A single tear - or was it a raindrop? - slipped from the corner of his eye, sliding down to blend with the rain upon his face, and he held out his hand to her, the movement almost imperceptible - but not quite.

“Ada,” she whispered, and then she was crossing the courtyard to wrap him up in her arms, her clothes and hair soaked through almost immediately. His arms went around her, his cheek came to rest upon her hair, and she clung to him as her grief overwhelmed her and the tears came at last. 

She felt his shoulders shaking, just a little, felt rather than heard his hitched, shuddering breaths, almost in time with her own, and she thought she could feel the very edges of his despair and loneliness, reaching up to claim him again. They had known this was coming, they had always known, but the knowledge would not, _could_ not make it any easier to bear.

“I’m so sorry, Ada,” she murmured eventually, swallowing down against a sob and lifting her head from his chest. 

“I know, melinettë-nín,” Thranduil whispered, and Sigrid could not help a tiny smile at the name he had given her when he had first come into their family; it had fitted her better then, but to him, of course, even now she was still little more than a child. 

She scrubbed the heel of her hand across her face, dashing the tears away, and looked up at him; a soft, helpless laugh escaped her as she took in the sight of his face, beautiful and noble as always, his skin wet with rain but no sign that he had been weeping only moments ago. 

“Look at you,” she said, “I’m a wreck and you’re still perfect. Sopping wet, but perfect.” 

“I am far from that,” he murmured, but the palest ghost of a smile swept across his face for a moment. “I am broken, Sigrid, and I cannot quite…I cannot quite grasp all the pieces to put myself together again and…and be in that space, with those people, and wear the face that I must wear before them.” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “So I came out here, and I realised that this was where we came, that first evening after the battle, your father and I.”

Sigrid looked around, remembering that night, sheltering in the corner of the great hall, and her father and the Elvenking slipping out of the door as Hilda and Agnes dished out stew and tea, and Tauriel helped Sigrid with Tilda, and Bain sat quietly on the bench, staring at nothing. And, later, when she had woken to find her father gone, knowing that he had gone to the King’s tent but not quite understanding, not _quite_ , what that had meant; not until he had returned, late in the night, smiling as though he had discovered something magical in the ruins of the city. 

“Oh, Ada,” she murmured, “this is where it all began.” Her voice hitched, and she swallowed hard. 

“It is,” he whispered, “although it is very different now. We sat here, and we talked, we ate Hilda’s stew, and I was - I was reeling from all I had seen. And somehow, your father anchored me.” The ghostly smile crossed his face again, although it stayed a little longer this time. “And he kissed me.”

Sigrid’s eyes widened, and she stepped back a little in surprise. “He - _then_?” She huffed out a shocked little laugh, shaking her head. “Do you know, I always assumed it was _after_ , when he went to see you later on.” She laughed again. “And I always assumed it was _you_ who kissed _him_ first.”

Thranduil smiled again, a little more definitely this time. “I think he immediately regretted taking the liberty. I could see it upon his face. But somehow I did not mind, and - well, then _I_ kissed _him_. And I am glad that I did, for that moment changed the course of my life. It brought me happiness, and a family, and a love such as I thought was lost to me for ever. But now…now he is gone and I am not sure how I will bear it.”

“Oh, Ada,” said Sigrid, and she hugged him again. “Look, we can’t go back in there - for a start, we’re both soaking wet, and I…I _cannot_ go back in there and be the Queen again, not now. And I’m not going to make you go back in there and be the King. Nobody is going to miss us, not now, they’re all too busy getting drunk and listening to Dáin telling stories. Let’s just go back to the house, get into some dry clothes, and have a drink and remember Da on our own.”

“I would like that,” said Thranduil, hugging her tightly. “Thank you, melinettë-nín.”

“Thank _you_ , Ada, for giving me the excuse to get out of there. I wasn’t sure how much longer I could bear it.” She eased back out of his arms, and took his hand instead, tugging him towards the gate at the back of the courtyard. “Come on, this leads straight onto the street, and then it’s only a few minutes to the house.”

They hurried through the streets, and by the time they reached the house the rain was easing off a little, although darkness was falling. Sigrid pushed the front door open and reached for the lamp and tinderbox that stood on the table just inside, waiting for anyone who came indoors in darkness; she lit the lamp and left it to light the hallway. Turning to Thranduil she saw that he was carefully wringing the water out of his hair and the ends of his trailing sleeves.

“Right then,” she said, “dry clothes, and then I will see you in the salon in a few minutes, and we will drink to Da’s memory.”

Thranduil gave her a wan smile. “I will see you in a few moments.” He went slowly up the stairs towards the room he had always shared with Sigrid’s father when they had been in Dale, and Sigrid watched him go, her heart aching for him. 

When he had disappeared out of sight at the top of the stairs, she went into the salon and lit the fire that had been laid in the grate and retrieved two bottles of the finest Dorwinion wine and two goblets out of the cabinet, setting them on the low table in front of the fire, and then she took herself off to her own rooms. 

She stripped off her sodden clothes in the bathroom, wringing them out over the bath and then draping them over the side; they would have to be washed anyway, but there would be time enough for that tomorrow. Then she towelled herself dry vigorously - no sense in catching a chill today of all days - and rubbed the worst of the rain out of her hair, and made for her dressing room to find some warm clothes to wear. She had never quite become accustomed to having so many rooms to call her own, and sometimes she still missed her tiny childhood home in Lake-town, where her da and her siblings were never far away. But it was what it was, and at least here she had been able to dedicate her life to making a difference to the lives of her people.

Tonight, however, she was not the Queen; she was only a bereaved daughter doing her best to comfort her grieving stepfather. No need for finery; what she needed were warm, dry underthings and stockings, a simple woollen dress, and a thick, long, knitted jacket to go over the top. She combed her hair out, blotting some more water out of it, and then twisted it into a simple knot on the back of her head, pinning it carefully into place before the looking-glass; sometimes she felt there were more strands of grey amongst the dark gold curls every time she looked at herself, more lines around her eyes and at the corners of her mouth. She was older now by fifteen summers or more than her da had been when he had slain the dragon and led them all to Dale; how had that happened? She still hardly felt more than twenty.

Sigrid watched in the mirror as her eyes filled with tears, and she angrily dashed them away with the back of her hand. Now was no time for moping in front of the mirror at how fast her life was slipping away. Now she had to go and do what she could for her Ada; if she could ease his pain even a little tonight, she must.

Pulling herself together, she went downstairs again, making a swift detour to the kitchens for a small plate of the buns she knew Agnes had left in the oven to keep warm in case anyone needed them after the drinking and reminiscing was done. 

Thranduil was already in the salon, swathed in a dry robe of midnight blue velvet and sitting at one end of the sofa, staring unseeing into the fire, his damp hair twisted over one shoulder. He had made no effort to open the wine, and Sigrid had to bite back the smile that wanted to emerge at that, and the somewhat disloyal thought that if she needed confirmation that all was wrong with the world, here she had it.

She set the buns on the table and sat down on the sofa next to him, not too close, just in case, and leaned forward to unseal the bottle and pour them both a generous amount of wine. Passing one goblet to Thranduil, she settled back against the sofa cushions, tucking her feet up under herself. 

“This is so much better,” she said after a moment. “We don’t have to be public any more, we don’t have to pretend anything.”

“It is a relief,” said Thranduil, very quietly. “I do not usually struggle to maintain my composure, no matter what I am feeling inside. But today - today I found that I could not.”

“I’m not surprised,” said Sigrid. “This is no ordinary day. And - well, we knew this was coming, we’ve all been dreading it for years, but for you - oh, Ada, for you it’s so much worse.” She rested the fingers of one hand upon his arm, and he turned his head towards her, closing his eyes and resting his free hand on hers for a moment; glancing down, she saw that among the rings on his fingers was the silver and emerald ring he had given her father so long ago, and her heart clenched at the sight of it. “I’m so, so sorry.” Her voice caught, and she had to swallow hard.

“I knew this was coming,” said Thranduil, his voice barely more than a whisper. “I have known it since that first night. I knew I should protect myself, turn away and retreat behind my walls of ice. But - but I could not. I had been so cold for so long, and your father was so warm, I could not help myself. I could not turn away from him.”

“I know, Ada,” Sigrid whispered, and he laid his hand over hers. 

“I told myself that the happiness would be worth the pain,” murmured Thranduil. “I told myself it would sustain me through the empty years, afterwards. But now - now I feel like I did before, when I lost _her_ , only somehow the knowledge that this would happen has made it harder to bear, not easier.” He squeezed his eyes shut and bit his lips together, and Sigrid moved closer, curling against him and reaching across him to hold him close, resting her head upon his shoulder; he slid his arm around her and drew her close.

“Don’t shut us out,” she said. “We’ll do everything we can for you - I know we can’t…we can’t be _him_ , but we’re all here, and we’ll all do our absolute level best for you, only don’t shut us out.”

“I will do my best,” said Thranduil. “My instinct is still to withdraw, even after the years I have spent with you all trying to unlearn that habit. But I will try not to.”

“Good,” said Sigrid, patting his arm very gently. “Besides, you know Tilda, she’ll never let you build those walls back up again, if she has anything to do with it.”

Thranduil let out a breath that could almost have been a laugh. “Tilda has always been most insistent that I must not allow myself to become frozen again.”

“She’s right,” said Sigrid softly. “I know it hurts like this, but if you can only bear to _let_ it hurt, in time the pain will ease. If you shut yourself away again - you didn’t even begin to get over losing your wife until you met Da and us, did you?”

“I suppose I did not. And, in truth, I do not think I have yet.” He sighed. “For my people, there is the promise that we may meet our lost ones again in the Undying Lands, but I cannot leave my people, my realm - or my family.” He took a sip of his wine and then brought his free hand up to smooth a strand of Sigrid’s hair out of her face. “And there is no guarantee that she would be waiting there for me.” He sighed. “Besides, there is no comfort for me in the thought of the Undying Lands now, for your father will not be there.”

“Oh, Ada,” said Sigrid. “Da would’ve wanted you to go and find her, when you’re ready, you know that. He never wanted you to spend the rest of your days mourning him.”

“I know,” said Thranduil, “I know. But I am not sure I have very much control over the matter. And if there is no guarantee that she will be there, and it is guaranteed that your father will not be there, what would Valinor hold for me?”

“Don’t think about it now, Ada,” Sigrid said firmly. “Let yourself grieve for Da first, and begin to heal. Let it hurt, let the poison drain from the wound, and then let yourself heal.”

“And what if I cannot?” Thranduil whispered.

“Let us try to help you first,” said Sigrid. “And if it doesn’t work, then yes, maybe withdrawing might be the way to go, at least for a while, but really, let us try first. Because you never know, it might work.”

“I have never known you or your siblings to fail at anything you have put your minds to,” said Thranduil, a faint smile in his voice. “So perhaps I should have a little more faith in you all, and trust you to mend my heart for me. I suppose you managed it before, after all.”

“Of course we did,” said Sigrid, and she leaned up to kiss his cheek. “Because we love you.”

“And I love you all, as you know,” he said, taking another sip of his wine and visibly beginning to pull himself together. “And I will let you help me as much as I am able to.”

“Good,” said Sigrid, sitting up a little, but staying within the curve of his arm, as she took a sip from her own goblet. “And you know that you can always come to me, whatever I’m doing. Nothing is more important than this, not even being Queen. Tilda can do some work for once.”

Thranduil chuckled faintly. “I have always thought that Tilda works very hard,” he said. “It is only that she is so effortlessly charming that nobody notices her diplomacy, because they are too busy being charmed.”

“You’d know,” said Sigrid, tilting her head so that she could grin up at him.

“I suppose I would,” said Thranduil, giving her a small smile in return. 

They settled into quiet conversation after that, working their way slowly down the bottle of wine and talking of this and that, mostly skirting around the subject of Sigrid’s father; for all that Sigrid had intended to take advantage of the peace and quiet to reminisce about him, now that they were here she found she could not quite bear to talk of him, not when they had only seen him into his tomb that morning.

Eventually the family and household began to return from the great hall, some footsteps sounding steadier than others. Bain and Lotta looked in on their way to putting the children to bed, much as Brand protested that he was almost grown-up now and he wanted to sit up and remember his grand-da with everyone else. Tilda fetched herself a goblet and poured some wine and then came to sit on the sofa next to Sigrid, her tears finally dried, it seemed, although after a while she asked Sigrid and Thranduil to shuffle up so that she could squeeze in on Thranduil’s other side and tell him, a little unsteadily, a few of the tales Dáin had been telling in the great hall.

Tauriel slipped into the room soon afterwards and came to sit next to Sigrid; under cover of Tilda’s conversation with Thranduil, she murmured in Sigrid’s ear, “I will leave in the morning, if you don’t think you will need me.”

“Are you going to find Legolas?” whispered Sigrid, and Tauriel nodded.

“I made a promise to your father, long ago, that when he was gone I would go and find Legolas, and bring him home. Bard saw even then that Thranduil would need him now.”

“Go as soon as you want,” said Sigrid. “I think we can keep the Dwarves quiet without our ambassador for as long as it will take you to find him. Does he still ride with the Dúnedain?”

“I think so,” said Tauriel, “although when last I saw him, he said his friend Estel was in Gondor.” She smiled. “I think he may also have made his peace with the sons of Elrond. Once he reconciled with his father, and once you three adopted him, I think the weight he had been carrying was lifted from him and he became much more like he was when we were young; not least, I think he has regained his ability to take a joke.”

Sigrid couldn’t help a little laugh, remembering the havoc the twin sons of Elrond had wrought - or tried to wreak - when they had visited Dale with their father so long ago. “I always did think that the key thing with those two was not to take them too seriously,” she said. “And Legolas was so serious, when we first knew him.”

“He was very serious, for a very long time,” said Tauriel. “But you three brought him back to who he was, just as you did with his father.”

“I think we had some help,” said Sigrid. “You, of course, and Da.”

“We all became a family,” said Tauriel with a smile. “And it was you mortals who taught us Elves everything, no matter that we Firstborn are supposed to be the wise ones.” Her smile widened to a grin. “Although my people are supposed to be less wise than some.”

Sigrid rolled her eyes, grinning back; this was not the first time they had had this particular conversation. “I think you are perfectly wise,” she said. “Just perhaps not so well-versed in the things that we have more experience of than you do, which is understandable.”

“I think our people give the race of Men far too little credit for your wisdom,” said Tauriel. “And I will tell them so for the rest of my days, for you saved me when I needed it most desperately.”

“You’re one of us,” said Sigrid, “and you have been since that night in Lake-town. Now, get yourself a goblet and pour yourself some wine. When Bain and Lotta come in, I want to drink a toast to Da.”

Tauriel obeyed, coming to sit back down next to Sigrid, and it was not long before Bain and his wife came in, Bain settling himself in an armchair and pulling Lotta down onto his lap. Tauriel passed them a goblet each, and then Sigrid sat up a little, raising her wine.

“Here’s to our Da,” she said, her voice as steady as she could keep it, “Bard of Lake-town, of Dale, of the Woodland Realm, Dragonslayer, King and Lord, bowman and bargeman, darling father and beloved husband, the best man in the whole world. Always loved, and never, ever forgotten.” Her voice wavered a little, at the last, but she held her goblet out, and all the others leaned in to touch their goblets to hers. 

Thranduil was last, and Sigrid looked up at him as she drank her wine; he looked terribly sad, still, but not quite as stricken as he had earlier, in the courtyard under the rain. He met her gaze and took a mouthful of his wine, and then he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

“Thank you, melinettë-nín,” he murmured. “That was beautiful. Never forgotten.”

“Never,” Sigrid said fervently, an oath and a promise caught up in that single word. “Not while any of us still draws breath.” She held his gaze, knowing that he understood what she meant, and after a moment he smiled, very faintly. 

“There is a saying that I have heard, that nobody is truly gone until the last person who carries a memory of them has passed beyond the world,” he said softly. “If it is within my power, then your father will never be truly gone.”

“Good,” said Sigrid. “You hold him here, and never let him go.” She placed her hand over his heart for a moment, and Thranduil covered it with his own hand. “Let his memory be a joy to you, not a sorrow, when you’re ready. That’s how we do it. Eventually the pain fades, and when you think of them again, you smile.” She touched her goblet to his again. “It’s what we did when Mam died. I don’t really remember what she looked like, but I remember how much she loved us, how much fun she was, and I can’t think of her without smiling. You’ll get there with Da, in time, and if there’s one thing you’ve got lots of, it’s that.”

“I hope you are right,” said Thranduil softly. “I suppose I will have to wait, and try, and see.”

“You do that,” said Sigrid. “And you know where we are, if you need us. You can stay here as long as you like, if you want to, you don’t have to go straight home again.”

“I would like that,” said Thranduil. “Hard as it is here, I think it will be harder still in my home, where he lived with me for so long. My halls are going to feel terribly empty without him.”

“Then stay until you feel you can face it,” said Sigrid. “And if you need any of us to come home with you for a while, just say.” Privately she hoped that Tauriel would have returned with Legolas by that point, and perhaps Legolas might feel inclined to spend some time at home with his father, but they would all have to wait and see how things turned out. 

In the meantime, though, they would all grieve together, and help each other begin to heal. And eventually, perhaps, given enough time, the memories of her father would raise smiles, instead of tears; but they would all carry him within their hearts for the rest of their days.

**Author's Note:**

> For anyone who is feeling too sad after reading this, there is an epilogue to Empty Vessel, called [Empty-Handed](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26191477), which starts out incredibly angsty but ends very happily indeed, thanks to my complete disregard for canon, and it leads into an equally canon-bending sequel in which everyone gets the happy ending they deserve, and we finally get to know Bard and Thranduil's wives, Maudie and Auriel. I'm going to start posting the sequel next week, because what the hell, it's fanfic, there are no rules, and who cares if I haven't finished the main fic yet. :D
> 
> I'm planning, at some point, to write a parallel fic to Empty Vessel telling the story of the friendship between Sigrid and Tauriel, and this fic technically ought to have been a chapter or two of that, but I couldn't wait that long to post it. :D
> 
> **Sindarin translations:**  
>  (source: ambar-eldaron.com's dictionary last updated October 2008):
> 
> ada: father (informal)  
> melinettë-nín: my dear girl
> 
> Thank you for reading! If you're enjoying the story, do feel free to leave a comment and let me know - long or short or a single emoji, every single one absolutely makes my day. :)
> 
> I am [nocompromise-noregrets](https://nocompromise-noregrets.tumblr.com) over on Tumblr, by the way, so if any of you would like to come and find me there I would love to see you.


End file.
